A Rush of Wings (43 page)

Hands lifted her. Her head lolled. The white sky merged with the snow-covered concrete. “Relax,” a masculine voice said. “Don’t fight it.

“We’re taking you to Doctor Moore.”

Cold whirled into Heather’s mind, icing it, shutting it down.

***

PAIN THROBBED, A GLOWING fireplace poker against the bone. E opened his eyes. His stomach lurched. Swallowing hard—
need my pills
—he looked around the van. The blood-smeared air bed was empty, the unused pillow a sudden reminder of the shiv in his thigh.

E glanced down. His leg burned beneath the blade. A rim of dried blood on his jeans surrounded the shiv.
Motherfucking bloodsucker bastard
! Something dark and excited coiled into him, lurking beneath his rage. The memory of the shivs buried in Dante’s pale flesh sent tingles down E’s spine.

A quick look over his shoulder revealed Dante sprawled on the floor. E scooted around to get a better look. The pretty little bloodsucker was belly down on the carpet, on the safe side of the curtains and the daylight burning beyond.

Head turned to one side, hair across his face, one arm under him and the other up, crooked at the elbow, Dante—
oops
!
Make that S
—looked like he’d dropped in his tracks. Or had taken another head shot.

E’s gaze crawled over Dante, drinking in every detail. He wished S hadn’t awakened until
after
he’d finished playing. Kinda wished he hadn’t awakened at all. Really wished he had the key to the cuffs.

Teeth clenched, E eased his swollen and bruise-blackened wrist from the sling. Pain and nausea double-clutched his guts. Sweat popped up on his forehead. He swallowed back bile. Leaning his head against the side of the van, E rested and pondered the shiv. He doubted he could tug it free, not and remain conscious, anyway.

He glanced at Dante. Boy was down for the count. He could make all the noise he wanted—Dante wouldn’t stir. Or S. E shuddered suddenly, remembered Dante throwing his own words back at him, all hard and cold, like the bloodsucker’s voice.

That’s my Bad Seed bro
.

In that moment, E’d been sure he was going to die. Bad. Hard. Ugly.

But Dante wanted Gina’s last words and only E possessed them. So the moment had passed and his heart still beat on and on and on. Would beat long after Dante’s had stopped.

E’s gaze skipped to the black bag and his satchel o’ tricks beside it. Pills for the pain in one. Dope for Dante in the other. Just what the doctor ordered for both of them.

Moving carefully, E reached for the satchel. Grasped the edge. A lightning bolt of pain jolted up his arm to his shoulder and he screamed before he could stop it. But he’d been right about Dante—the bloodsucker slept on, undisturbed. Black spots flecked E’s vision as he plucked at the Baggie of pills and slid a swollen finger along the bag’s seam. It opened. Sweat trickled down his temples.

E’s fingers scooped up pills, tucking them into his palm. Several spilled onto the carpet, bouncing and rolling every which way but toward him. Lowering his shaking hand, he dropped the pills he’d snagged into his mouth. Swallowed. His stomach felt tight as a fist. He leaned against the van. Breathed. In. Out. In. The nausea faded.

E closed his eyes. Wished he had his shades. Wished he had a smoke. Thought maybe
Dante
should be handcuffed and hurting and wishing for all manner of things while
E
snoozed. Like wishing he’d never been born. Fucker. Drank
his
blood.

Did it glow within Dante even now? If E opened his eyes, would he see his own golden light radiating from the Sleep-drugged vampire? E’s heart skipped a beat, then resumed with a chest-vibrating thud. He opened his eyes.

Golden honeyed light slipped from between Dante’s lips, streamed from his nostrils; starred out from around his slender body. Snaked around him in golden coils.

Bound him. Connected him to the handcuffed god.

E grinned.
Mine
. Once the pills went to work, easing the pain in his throbbing arm, he’d sneak a syringe and a vial of bloodsucker dope out of the black bag. Tuck them into his sling. Then bide his time with godlike patience.

And wait for the backstabbing little shit to turn his back.

***

LUCIEN LANDED, TOUCHING BARE feet to snow-tipped grass. His wings flared once, flinging droplets of ice and snow into the air, then folded behind him. Gray clouds hid the sun. Beyond the rest stop, cars rushed by on the interstate, tires hissing through the snow and slush. Two vehicles remained in the parking lot: a white van with Alabama license plates and a semi. The semi’s shattered passenger’s side window told Lucien that his child had fed—although his forced entry spoke of desperate need.

Wings tucking into their pouches, Lucien strode to the van. He’d followed Dante’s chaos song until it’d faded, but the song’s rage and hurt and madness hadn’t faded; it burned still within Lucien’s heart.

Dante was lost within his own wounded mind.

An hour or so ago, the static blocking their bond had vanished and Lucien had followed it like an ethereal rope to his Sleeping child.

Lucien’s fingers curled around the door’s cold handle. Locked. Pressing his hand flat against the door, he flicked energy into the lock. Blue sparks showered to the pavement, melting tiny holes in the snow. He grasped the handle and opened the door.

Air reeking of blood and violence, sweat and stale cigarettes rolled out of the van like black smoke from a fire. Lucien caught his breath, for underneath, like coals beneath a pile of ash, smoldered the scorched and bitter stink of twisted lust, of evil.

Lucien listened to the slow, steady beat of Dante’s heart. The sound soothed him.
I have found my son
. Climbing into the van, he parted the curtain and slid through, careful not to let the weak winter sunlight touch his child.

Lucien looked at Dante Sleeping on the van’s floor. That burning-in-the-sunlight scream, that heart-wrenching sound of a child’s agony—
his
child’s—echoed within Dante’s fragmented dreams. Reminded Lucien of what he’d felt…what he’d
heard
while standing in the kitchen with Wallace.

Chloe. My princess. My heart
.

I won’t let them have you
.

Kneeling, Lucien gathered his son into his arms. Dante’s heat baked into him. Heat when he should be Sleep-cool. Blood trickled from one nostril, streaking his lips.

Ah, little one, they took her anyway. There was nothing you could’ve done. Nothing. You were only a child, too
.

Lucien brushed the hair back from Dante’s face, touched the cool silver hoops in his ear.

His past devours him
.

Lucien’s gaze dropped. His heart constricted as he stared at the slashes in Dante’s T-shirt. The blood smell—Dante’s. He pushed up the blood-stiff material. Countless healing wounds crisscrossed his chest and abdomen. Cuts. Punctures. Knife wounds.

Are knives required equipment for a journalist’s assistant
?

Lucien finally gave his attention to the sleeping mortal handcuffed to the van. A bitten and purpled throat. One arm in a sling, the fingers swollen. A knife hilt stuck up from his thigh. Lucien’s gaze flickered down to the boy cradled in his arms, paused, then returned to Jordan.

Across from Jordan was a mattress spattered and smeared with blood. Dante’s blood. Blood also flecked the wall and the ceiling above. A book—poetry?—and scattered papers and photos littered the carpet beside the bed.

Lucien tensed. He recognized the photos. The same ones he’d looked at with Wallace. So, Dante’s past had been given to him with blood and knives. Given without mercy by a dead-eyed mortal.

And yet somehow Dante had freed himself. So why was Jordan still breathing?

Had the wretch
bargained
for his life? Lucien’s gaze shifted back to the papers and reports scattered on the floor. With what?

His first impulse was to gather Dante into his arms and fly home. Once his child was safe, he’d return. Then Jordan and Moore would endure a final reckoning, an Elohim judgment and an Old Testament–style death.

But daylight burned outside. He needed to wait until dusk to carry Dante home. Lucien bent and pressed his lips against Dante’s, breathing energy into him, just as he’d done when Wallace had served her warrant. Urged his child up from Sleep. Up from the ashes he curled in, his arms around a little girl.

Pain slammed against Lucien’s shields. Inhaling, he flexed it away. He touched his fingertips to Dante’s temple. Poured cool light into his child’s pain-ravaged mind and fevered body.

Dante drew in a deep breath. His eyes opened. He looked at Lucien, but no recognition sparked within the dark depths of his eyes. Shoving free of Lucien’s hold, Dante rolled to his knees. Body coiled, muscles taut, he hissed.

Fear trailed a cold hand down Lucien’s spine. Was Dante lost to madness? A
creawdwr
unbound and insane? Or was it simply Sleep refusing to release him? There was always a risk in awakening a Sleeper.

Lucien held up a placating hand. “Dante, child, you are safe. Hush.”

“Not Dante,” a low voice said. Jordan. “That’s S.”

“S doesn’t exist,” Lucien said. “Only Dante. S is a part of you, child. The rage you deny, the pain you ignore.”

“He ain’t exactly been
denying
rage lately,” Jordan muttered.

Never taking his eyes off Dante, Lucien pointed a finger and snapped a whip of energy across the mortal. Jordan yelped. The smell of ozone cut through the air.

Lucien met Dante’s red-streaked and simmering gaze. He saw it now. Sleep lingered in his son’s eyes. “She can’t rise with you. I’m sorry, but you must leave her behind and let her sleep.”

“No.” Dante’s hands knotted into fists. Pain and Sleep shadowed his eyes. “I promised forever.”

“Child, you’ve given her forever,” Lucien said, voice husky. “She’s always with you. But she doesn’t need to be
here
. You are in a van with Elroy Jordan. He stole you.
Tortured
you. Dante, awaken.”

Dante winced, his pale face drawn. He touched a trembling hand to his temple. “Chloe,” he whispered. “I can still save her.”

“It’s too late, Dante.”

Dante looked at Lucien, Sleep fading from his eyes. He swallowed hard. Looked away. After a moment, he nodded.

Lucien cupped Dante’s face. “You are my son,” he said. “You can hate me all you want, but that truth remains—you are the child of Lucien and Genevieve.”

Dante jerked his head away from Lucien’s touch and pushed fever-hot hands against his bare chest, preparing to shove away, then stopped. A single clear note rang through Lucien, reverberating through his flesh and back into Dante’s palms. Wonder lit Dante’s face. Gold gleamed in his eyes. Energy played back and forth between them; a
creawdwr
drawn by his creation, an
aingeal
captivated by his Maker.

Dante yanked his hands from Lucien’s chest. Lucien saw the questions in his eyes as the golden gleam faded:
What was that
?
What just happened
?

“There are things I must teach you,” Lucien said. “Before it’s too late.”

Dante shook his head, his hands clenching into fists against his thighs.

Lucien wanted to shake reason into his headstrong child even as he wanted to embrace him, hold him close and safe. “Yes, whether you like it or not.”

“The Big Guy’s your fucking
daddy
? Holy shit!” Jordan laughed.

Blue flames arced around Lucien, burned through his veins with a cool, cleansing fire. He turned. His hand closed around the mortal’s purpled throat and squeezed. Jordan’s eyes bulged. His tongue protruded. He kicked, but Lucien blocked each slow-moving blow with his arm. A shame. This would be an easy death compared to what he’d imagined for him.

“No!” Dante’s fingers locked around Lucien’s wrist.

“What bargain did he strike with you?” Lucien said, voice low. Jordan thrashed, eyes rolling up white. Spittle flecked his lips. “Dante, what?”

“He’ll give me Gina’s last words.”

“In exchange for what?”

“A few more hours,” Dante said. “I…
S
…” Confusion flickered across his face. “I…agreed not to kill him until after Moore.”

“Ah, child,” Lucien sighed. He relaxed his hold, but didn’t release Jordan. His gaze shifted to Dante. “Her last words won’t change anything. How do you know he’s not lying to you?”

“I don’t,” Dante said. “But I’ll know Gina’s words from any he’d make up.” Pain and loss shadowed his face.

Fragile
, Lucien realized.
Dante’s endured too much. He needs Sleep. Blood. Quiet
.

“There’s nothing you can do for those already gone,” Lucien said. “But
Heather
searches for you in D.C.
She
needs you. Not the dead. Their needs are over.”

“Heather,
oüi
,” Dante breathed. His fingers slipped from Lucien’s wrist. “Is she safe? Who’s with her?”

Jealousy spiked from Jordan, black and bitter and sharp.

“She’s alone,” Lucien said, fixing his gaze on Jordan. Leaning in, he whispered into the mortal’s ear, “She yearns to return to Dante’s bed, his embrace. She’s forgotten you.”

Lucien released him. The mortal slumped, gasping and retching, supported only by his handcuffed wrist. Hatred poured out of him, hot and greasy, shimmering around him like oil on water. Lucien smiled.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dante said. Exasperation and anger edged his voice. He ran a hand through his hair. “This ain’t the time for games. Someone’s trying to kill Heather and she’s alone. I gotta get to D.C.”

Lucien shook his head. “When the sun sets, I’ll take you home—”

“No. I’m gonna finish this.” Dante’s eyes dilated suddenly. His body tensed. “Do whatever the fuck you want, but
I’m
going to D.C.”

Pain whispered against Lucien’s shields, pain and droning voices.
Why won’t the past release him
? He reached for Dante. Lucien
felt
it as memory yawned open and swallowed Dante. Shook him. Lucien held him tight, heart hammering. His child’s eyes rolled up white. His body arched. Convulsed.